


a study in brain death

by simplyclockwork



Category: Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock BBC
Genre: Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-21
Updated: 2011-11-21
Packaged: 2017-10-26 10:00:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/281712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/pseuds/simplyclockwork
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I had a thought; all these fics with Sherlock using drugs, what if, after Reichenbach, John turned to illicit substances to try and... dull the pain, say?</p>
            </blockquote>





	a study in brain death

His hands are shaking; almost enough to drop the delicate, breakable things cradled in his crookedly-healed fingers. He fumbles with the needle; drops the empty vial, and his hands only quiver more as he struggles to straighten his aim. It seems ages later when he finally, and with great difficulty, slides the hollow end into the crook of his arm; punctures the well-bruised skin, and depresses the plunger, shuddering at the now all-too familiar feeling of ice in his veins. The head rush follows almost immediately, and he leans back against the brick wall of the alley; closes his eyes, and grinds his cheek against the coarse concrete, letting it grind his skin red and raw. He grits his teeth together; lets the needle roll from loose, twitiching fingers, shattering against the cobblestones with a glassy sigh. His eyes squeeze shut tighter, and the shakes begin, the world tilting on an insane axis behind his quivering eyelids.

It doesn’t help, any of this. The drugs; the shaking, quivering dissonance. It doesn’t stop the thoughts; the memories; the world. Noises, bustling life around him; grinding into his skull. It doesn’t stop moving ever, doesn’t stop moving, doesn’t stop.

He rubs his face raw and bloody; red running down his neck in singular lines of candy-apple stripes. He sniffs, coughs and shivers, lungs and heart aching in his chest; too much, too fast, too everything.

He shivers, arms curving around his torso, and collapses into himself; head thrumming, blood singing off-cue and off-note. He opens his mouth; tilts his bleeding, gravel-scraped face towards a smog-painted sky; makes pathetic, wanting noises while his body tries to shake apart. It’s soundless; nonsense; words that make perfect sense.

A name


End file.
